


All the Pretty Girls

by sinuous_curve



Category: Captain America
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Crossdressing, Gen, Teenagers, silk/velvet/feathers/fur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-25
Updated: 2011-07-25
Packaged: 2017-10-21 17:58:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinuous_curve/pseuds/sinuous_curve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>His mom gives him the change when she buys groceries and Steve keeps it in an old glass on his desk, usually saving it up for sketchbooks and pencils and paints. Except he keeps thinking about the silk robe and feeling his skin twitch, so when he has enough, he waits for his mom to send him down to the store to pick up a few things, he dumps his money into his pocket and adds a pair of stockings and a tube of bright red lipstick to the pile.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Pretty Girls

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to lyo for the prompt and kind audiencing. My thanks to templemarker for the beta.

Steve collects his pieces in discarded bits, and for the first time not having a father turns out to be an advantage.

They’re not rich, but every now and then she’ll fill up a paper bag with clothes that she doesn’t want anymore,telling Steve to take them down to one of the local city churches and put them in the poor box. That’s how he finds the robe; it’s made of oddly decadent silk, though it’s grown tatty around the edges and the print is faded from too many washings. Steve crouches on the front porch, fingering the fabric with his heart thumping hard in his chest. He hovers for a long moment, then shoves the robe in his bag and hurries the ten blocks to the church.

He sticks the robe in the very back of his bottom drawer, buried beneath his nicest pair of pants that he only wears on Easter and Christmas. He doesn’t think about it for two whole weeks, except during algebra when his mind always starts to wander this way and that.

His mom gives him the change when she buys groceries and Steve keeps it in an old glass on his desk, usually saving it up for sketchbooks and pencils and paints. Except he keeps thinking about the robe and feeling his skin twitch, so when he has enough, he waits for his mom to send him down to the store to pick up a few things, he dumps his money into his pocket and adds a pair of stockings and a tube of bright red lipstick to the pile.

“You’re a good kid, Stevie,” the man behind the counter says as he rings it up, grinning. “Running errands for your mom.”

Steve’s tongue-tied and blushing hard, but he’s a high school kid and that’s okay, apparently. He’s allowed to be a little embarrassed at getting caught buying lady stuff for his mom. He manages to spit out an answer as he collects the paper bag and pushed out back into the February cold. Two blocks away, he ducks into an alley and shoves the stockings and lipstick in his pocket. When he gets home, his mother kisses his cheek and tells him she wonders what she did to get such a good son.

The lipstick and stockings join the robe in Steve’s drawer. He feels hot and guilty every time he looks at the plain wood front, and it takes him another two weeks to get up the courage to pull them out.

It only happens because his mom tells him that morning she’s pulling a double shift, so she won’t be home until late, but there’ll be something for dinner in the stove he can heat up. She kisses both his cheeks on her way out the door and the rest of Steve’s breakfast falls on a twisted up stomach that stays that way all day. School drags like cold molasses; Steve taps his pencil all the way through algebra and his foot during English. He can’t even pay attention during art, which is the first time that’s ever happened.

When the bell rings, Steve makes himself walk home slow and steady and calm. He sets his book bag on the kitchen table and fixes up the half a casserole his mom left in the stove. It’s a little congealed on the edges and a little runny in the middle, but Steve makes up a nice place at the table and eats in slow, careful bites. His stomach churns against the food, but Steve ignores it. Whenever he blinks, he sees the robe and stockings and lipstick in his bottom drawer, with all the clothes he doesn’t really wear.

He washes his plate and cutlery when he’s finished eating and sets them all on the drying rack, nice and neat. Then he doesn’t have anything else to do, so he casually shuffles back to his room, closes the door, and locks it tight. Steve feels like his heart is going to break his ribs if it keeps up pounding like it is. His skin feels hot and too tight over his bones and he’s...got a little _interest_ in his shorts.

Steve kneels in front of his dresser with his mouth dry like the desert. He opens the drawer with a soft hush of wood on the metal tracks. Looking down, he just sees piles of pants that are getting too small and a sweater he got for Christmas that was just too ugly to be put into his closet. His hands shake as he rifles through those innocent garments and lays his hands on the robe and stockings and lipstick, crumpled up small as they’ll go in the back corner.

Furtively, Steve rubs the robe across his face and inhales the scent of it. His mom doesn’t usually wear perfume, but there’s just a hint of rose clinging to the tatty silk, delicate and light and lovely.

Standing, he fans the robe out of his bed and lays the stockings neatly on top. He had to guess the size and they look small to his eyes, but then again, his only reference is his mom’s stockings drying over the kitchen sink on Saturday morning. The lipstick goes on his desk, set upright next to his glass cup full of the nice colored pencils he got for Christmas.

“Okay,” Steve murmurs to himself, wiping sweaty palms on the front of his pants.

He toes off his shoes and sets them neatly at the end of the bed. He undoes his buckle and unbuttons his pants; he pushes them down and folds them up nice and neat and puts them in his laundry basket. Then he peels off his socks, unbuttons his shirt, and shucks the rest of his clothes except for his jockeys. Steve hesitates then, thumbing at the elastic waistband with his heart pounding, pounding, pounding. He feels just a little faint; he flashes to the horrifying embarrassment of passing out and being found out by his mom.

Steve swallows hard and quickly jerks his shorts off, shoving them into his laundry basket. He’s rarely naked and it feels indulgent and furtive to be waltzing around his room unclothed.

The robe on his bed is so appealing; Steve can barely keep his hands steady as he reaches for it. Just a caress at first--he’s caught hard between the desire thrumming through his body and the embarrassment turning his stomach. It’s a little awful and a little wonderful at the same time. Somehow, the thought rises that he wished he had panties to match the robe, but he pushes that idea away.

“Too much,” he murmurs to himself, abruptly moving his hand from the robe to the stockings. He picks them up and they swing diaphanously through the cool midwinter light that escapes through the cracks in his curtains.

He sits down at his desk chair and crosses his legs at the knee. He feels a little ridiculously draped in the pose, too big for the first time his life, and a touch clumsy. Steve pulls the stockings between his fingers; the fabric is so sinuous against his skin. Quietly, Steve sighs with a long exhalation of pleasure. Like the robe, he touches the fabric to his cheek and closes his eyes as he does. They’re just so _soft_.

Steve swallows hard, then bunches a stocking up in his hand and slides it over his foot.

The fabric catches on the hair of his legs. He wishes for a split second that he could shave them, but that would be just too strange. It’s only a minor irritant, though, compared to how lovely the stockings feel against his leg. And how much the sight of them sends heat swirling through his lower belly. Steve slips it over the bend of his knee and the tops stop right in the middle of his thigh.

It’s a little hard to breathe, looking at the band of the stocking stretched across his skinny, pale thigh. He’s always been made fun of for being small, but he _likes_ how small and delicate his limb looks encased in the stocking.

Steve repeats the process on his other leg then stretches his limbs out in front of him so he can see the neat stockings side by side. He thinks he looks a little bit elegant, even with the hair on his legs poking through the sheer fabric here and there, even with his knobby knees and bony feet, even with his scrawny, pasty body. He touches his finger to the line of skin where the tops of the stockings rest and shudders a little, feeling the flush of heat through his cheeks and shoulders. He feels really, really nice.

It scares him, a little. A lot.

But he shakes his head to banish the thought, because he doesn't know when his mom will next work a double shift, guaranteeing him a few hours alone. He turns in his desk chair and looks at himself in the small mirror propped up on his desk shelf. It's small; he mostly uses it for self-reference when he's drawing. But when he picks up the lipstick, Steve thinks it'll work perfectly well as a compact.

He's watched his mom put on her makeup from the time he was a little kid, back before his dad died when they would go out for a night together every other month. Logically, he knows it's not too hard to do the basic smear of the stuff. Open mouth, spread on the color, and there you go. But his hands start shaking again as he opens the tube and pushes up the bright red lipstick. It's like roses and blood; despite the art hanging on his walls, it's easily the most colorful thing in his room.

Steve glances at himself in the mirror. He's just a skinny kid from Brooklyn, half a head shorter than the next smallest guy, who likes to draw and doesn't fit in. It feels kind of like confirming all the worst things everyone has ever said about him to touch the lipstick to his bottom lip, but it feels a little defiant, too. Nobody would ever imagine that weird Steve Rogers was _this_ weird.

He coats his lower lip with the lightest of touches. It just barely leaves behind a greasy sheen of faint color. He frowns a little, then takes another deep breath and applies a nice, thick coat of bright, brilliant red. It's shocking, seeing the color spring up on his skin.

“Jeez,” Steve murmurs, mesmerized by the sight off his mouth. He rubs his lips together and puckers them into a sassy little kiss at his reflection.

The color makes his skin look lighter and his eyes less bright. He's got blond eyelashes; Steve touches the tip of his finger to the corner of his eye and wonders what they'd look like if he could get his hands on a tube of mascara, his cheeks with a little bit of rouge swooping from nose to temple. The overwhelming, throbbing want bubbles up in his chest with such force as he hasn't know since he was a real little kid and he wanted a bike for Christmas that he knew his newly widowed mother wasn't going to be able to get.

Steve brushes his fingers against his mouth and they come away stained pink, like he was eating berries.

He has to take a moment, then, to wrap his arms around himself and wait until the shaking in his limbs backs down a little. He doesn't really understand what it all means. He's afraid to look too hard at himself or think about it, because there's only so much oddity the neighborhood can take before it gets mean. Steve can be small and weird, there's not anything he can do about that. But he can't be small and weird and _perverted_ , because Brooklyn is full of ladies and good old guys and they don't like that kind of thing.

Still, having come this far Steve can't stop and shove everything back in the drawer pretending that it's not there. So he stands and walks to his bed, bends over and fingers at the soft silk of the robe. He can just barely make out an old pattern of mostly faded flowers. The silk is _so_ soft and _so_ lovely.

Shivering, he picks up the robe and holds is reverentially between his hands. He presses the robe to his nose and inhales the faintly clinging scene long and slow. Roses, he thinks, or some other sweet flower that a pretty woman would dab behind her ears and her wrists before a special night. Steve rubs the silk between his fingers and listens to the murmured shushing of the fabric.

With a sudden burst of motion, Steve flares the robe out and around, pushing his arms into the sleeves and letting the robe settle over him.

It billows out around him for a moment as soft, cool air brushes against Steve’s body, before it settles. The silk brushes against the bare skin on his shoulders and back, his rear and hips to the backs of his knees. The front lies on either side of his chest down and down to his pelvis. His cock stands out between the pink fabric, hard and bright red with arousal at the head.

Steve’s muscles reflexively tighten at the sight.

The sleeves hit him perfectly at the wrists and Steve finds himself shockingly thankful that he’s small enough for the robe to fit properly. The band's long gone, since before it ever ended up in the paper bag down at down to the church. He curls his fingers around the front seams and draws them down. The fabric wafts prettily in the still air.

Delicately, Steve wraps the robe around his torso and holds it closed with one hand.

For a moment, he stands there in the middle of his room feeling like the biggest stranger who ever lived. He’s not Steve Rogers; Steve Rogers is the quiet, odd little guy without a dad who isn’t ever going to amount to much, but what can do you do? Too smart, too quiet, too sensitive. He’s going to either get out or come to an end that people will murmur about sadly, but secretly be relieved because he just never fit in.

No, he’s someone else. He’s a movie ingénue named Sasha, lounging about her dressing room while she waits to be called to set. He wishes he had a pair of heels that would make him look elegantly taller, and maybe a cigarette in a long filter to hold between his fingers, to gesticulate with. Almost unconsciously, Steve holds out his other hand with an invisible smoke held between two fingers and takes a few swaying steps around the end of his bed.

He can imagine the leading man coming in, dashing in his costume with dark hair and moustache, murmuring in Sasha’s ear that the director’s begging to have her back on set, he’ll come crawling on his knees and kiss her feet if that’s what it takes. Steve lets his robe fall open, eyes closed, swaying in his cool room as the sun sets and casts purple shadows on the wall.

The leading man would slip Sasha’s robe open and let his hands just accidentally brush against her silky skin, but they’d both know the little touch of hot flesh was no accident. His hands loses the shape of the imaginary cigarette and his palms splay flat over his hipbones, thumbs sweeping steady arcs over the hollows in his skinny frame.

The first kiss would land on Sasha’s neck while the leading man’s hands slipped under her robe. Steve can almost, _almost_ feel those big, callused phantom hands ghosting over his skin. He imagines them lain over his, pushing his finger in toward his hard cock until he can loosely circle his fingers around himself.

At the first jolt of pleasure, Steve’s eyes snap open and the fantasy wavers and cracks. “Oh,” he whispers, looking down at his hand like it belongs to someone else.

Embarrassment comes roaring back in, crushing down the sweet suffusion of pleasure and arousal the robe brought. He feels the flaming heat radiating off his cheeks and knows that his skin will be bright red if he looks in the mirror on his desk. And still he doesn’t loose his hand and let his cock go; he feels trapped by what he wants and what he knows is _wrong_ and for a moment he shakes as he wonders which one will win.

A soft breeze sighs through his room, sending his robe--the robe--fluttering around his legs and hips. The fabric kisses affectionately at his pale skin.

Steve inhales a slow and steadying breath, and exhales the same way. He licks his lips to feel the greasy slick sheen of the lipstick and curls his toes to feel the give and tug of the stockings. Then he tightens his fingers around his cock and curls the fingers of his opposite hand into the front of the robe, rubbing the fabric against his bare chest.

Against that sensation he draws a long, slow stroke of his cock and has to bite down hard on his bottom lip to keep from making a noise. The silk against his nipples feels so decadent and beautiful, he wants to wear the robe for the rest of his _life_. He keeps his hand in a steady rhythm in counterpoint to the brush of the silk on his chest, back and forth and back and forth, until his breath is shuddering and hitching in his chest and there’s maybe the hot prick of moisture at the corners of his eyes.

He’s only ever done this before while forcing himself to imagine the pretty girls at schools, just the nice ones, who smile kindly at him and drew out only weak, uncomfortable climaxes that left him frowning as he mopped himself up with tissues.

But this, the silk brushing against his skin and the stocking on his legs and the lipstick smearing on his mouth draws up a hot of coiled heat in his belly that makes Steve’s muscles feel alternately tight and loose. His thighs shudder at the pressure and his hand picks up speed without him ever thinking consciously about it. Steve feels his balls draw up tight in the moments before his entire body contracts and he comes across his knuckles and thumb and the back of his hand.

“Oh, God,” Steve whispers to his room in the shocked moment when he can breathe again. “Oh, _God_.”


End file.
